


Awakening

by ClementineStarling



Category: Hellraiser & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mild Sexual Content, Mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 04:32:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6180295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What is your pleasure?” she asks him, and he falls to his knees before her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> [scrap](http://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet) prompted: "Hellraiser; Kirsty Cotton/Pinhead  
>  The veil between his world and hers is thin on a particular night of the year. Once a year, from the moment Kirsty Cotton 'escapes' them, he pays her a visit - whether in the land of dreams or otherwise. How does a Cenobite court a human?" [[x](http://unsettledink.livejournal.com/112061.html?thread=1058749#t1058749)]

There are times when the borders between their worlds wear thin. Not clearly marked dates, just phases in which the nightmares bleed into waking hours, almost imperceivable. But Kirsty, all her psychological troubles aside, can distinctly _feel_ the difference, how something solid, _something that should be there, always,_ slowly crumbles and fades. At first the change is barely noticeable, a faint ripple in the smooth surface of reality, like a pebble being thrown into a lake that's been undisturbed for ages. It is swallowed quickly but for a few moments the usually so still, dark water is upset, cut apart by circular waves, when it should lie frozen, impenetrable as glass. Smooth and shining like the parts of a certain puzzle box.

It's not real, she tells herself, it must be her broken mind playing tricks, memories clattering and colliding in her head. Her therapist explained how it works, dissociations, hallucinations, delusions; and yet, the vague sensation of déjà-vu remains. 

A sensation that in the evenings lets Kirsty look up from her book and wonder briefly if she left a window ajar, the air's somehow _different_ , and when she closes her eyes to listen, she's almost certain she can hear a curtain flutter in the draft (even though sh does not own any curtains). 

The next thing she notices is a change in the light. It happens sometimes, on the train to work or at the office: A lamp flickers and for the blink of an eye the white of the neon tubes is tinged with the pale blue of hell. Another blink and the vision's gone but she knows what she's seen.

Shortly thereafter she begins to hear the soft tinkling of a music box on occasion, scarcely loud enough to make out, but she recognises the well-known little rondo of sublime banality without doubt - how could she not? And it's getting worse; as the days pass the melody gains new elements, grows more complex, just like upon solving the wretched puzzle.

That's when she knows it won't be long. She can feel _them_ coming, she can smell them in the cloying stench of rotting flowers or overripe fruit that has settled in her nose.

They're only nightmares, results of PTSD, her therapist says, scribbling another prescription for yet another medication, but Kristy knows better. The cenobites are real, and they are drawn to her with the invincible pull of fate. She can't stop them, just like she can't stop the earth from moving. One day or one night the curtain will fall and they will appear, mute shapes in the eerie light of their realm, just stand there and wait, and Kirsty will try not to be afraid. 

The first time it happens, her heart almost stops nonetheless. “I didn't summon you,” she whimpers. “I did not... you can't...”

But they only watch her, silent, motionless, and Kirsty presses herself against the wall, unable to move, and waits for the hooks to pierce her flesh. It doesn't happen though, and after a while they're simply gone.

The second time she keeps breathing. Perhaps they can't see her? Perhaps they are only figments of her imagination after all?

It's not until the third time, that one of them speaks, their leader, the one with the nails in his skull, the one she is most afraid of. “Come with us,” he says, stretching out his hand, and she almost drowns in the drone of his voice. 

“No,” she whispers, and they don't take her by force.

“I have such sights to show you,” he says the next time, and so many times after that, for she dreams of it almost every night in the year that follows. There was a lure to his voice she simply cannot forget. 

The fifth time he comes alone. There is a strange softness in his eyes, and she refuses him before he has even opened his mouth. “I can't,” she says and there might have been something like disappointment in his expression, she thinks afterwards.

The sixth time he speaks her name, “Kirsty,” he says, low and deep and warm, so sweet a promise, and she shudders.

“What do you want?” she asks, but he only smiles. 

She has learned by then what men want, those stalking, predatory creatures, the pitiful half of their species. They are weak, just as Frank was weak, and her father, and Kyle, and Steve too. There are slaves to their fears and desires, and is not this demon before her also a man? Surely he is driven by same need to dominate, conquer, destroy as all of his kind. So why doesn't he do it? 

When he appears for the seventh time she is ready, she knows the cue.

“What is your pleasure?” she asks him, and he falls to his knees before her. 

What a sight indeed to have a priest of hell at her feet, how intoxicating. All the power surrendered, only hers to command. He has lowered his eyes, and for once unobserved she allows herself to examine his features, to see him without the reservations of a mortal woman. Beneath the horror, there's a strange sort of beauty to the distorted flesh and flayed skin; a marvel how the scars were carved with skilled hand, the clothes sewn intricately into him, metal and muscle, leather and limb interlaced into a work of art.

Her fingers itch to touch his face, cup his cheek in her palm, but the nails hammered into his bone forbid such affection. The soft curve of his mouth is rendered useless by them as well, they will deprive them of anything more intimate than his lips pressed against her hand or her foot. 

So what is it that he wants, she thinks and quickly turns the question around in her head – what is that she wants? She wants to _see_ , she finds, behold what's under butcher's apron and priest's robe, no matter he has to cut himself open to achieve it and bare himself to her scrutiny.

When she tells him to strip, his gaze darts up for a moment, and she believes to glimpse a flicker of nervousness, perhaps even shame, in the polished black of his eyes, yet he doesn't refuse her but does as he is told, and there is a new feeling welling up inside her, neither terror nor the heady rush of power, something akin to pride perhaps, a bone-deep satisfaction and again, she wishes she could pet him somehow, for being such a good boy, such a sequacious hound of hell.

Her lips twitch with approval when he starts shedding his clothes.

He used to have a conventionally attractive body, she gathers from what is still left, skin pale from eternal darkness, stained with just the slightest hue of livor mortis, the muscle hard beneath it, bloodless though where it's bared, a raw pink that's nearly white. She wonders if he can feel like she feels, pain, pleasure, or if all sensuousness has been peeled off him like the living skin. His face gives nothing away of such sensations as he carefully removes his garments, piece by piece. In some areas the skin comes off with it, revealing more of the tender flesh, and a new, unknown excitement befalls her, as if she witnessed a present unwrapping itself.

There is more steel piercing his skin and buried deep in his muscle, hooks and bolts and rings, gruesome devices, pretty as jewellery as they reflect the light. Enticing. Almost whorish, Kirsty catches herself thinking, and oh, how satisfied she is with him for the fine pet he makes.

When at last there is only one layer left, a loincloth reminding her of the crucified Jesus, he swallows, obviously nervous, and Kristy wonders why. Why now? What could he possibly have between his legs he'd be anxious to show her? Some instrument of torture? Some unspeakable disfigurement? 

She clicks her tongue, and he obeys without further command, pulls away the fabric and uncovers--

_Nothing._

No genitals at least. 

There are scars though, silvery, deliberate patterns, telling a history of pain, so excruciatingly delicious, it makes Kirsty smile. How delightful someone went through the troubles to perfect her dog for her, take away all the needless urges, so he would be docile and tame.

Again she fights the impossible desire of stroking his head. She steps closer and touches his shoulder instead. Maybe she could demand he'd pull out the nails in his skull, so he'd be able to nuzzle his face against her thigh, between her legs. She shivers, unsure whether she wants him there. He is flawless as he is, why sully him with a taste of mortal pleasure? Why spoil his perfect composure, just because she is curious about the skill of his butcher's hands?

But then he does want to serve, doesn't he? 

Kirsty runs a tentative finger along the seam of his mouth, musing. His tongue must be long enough for him to be able to taste her at least, lap at her, while he'll make use of his hands.  
Yes, she thinks she would like that.

She looks down at him, fondly. “Time to play.”


End file.
